


All Yours

by nerfherder_writes (nerfherder_han)



Category: Fate/Grand Order
Genre: Dubcon Kissing, Dubious Consent, Other, Sex Magic, if you wanna think of it that way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-07-07 20:55:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19857898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerfherder_han/pseuds/nerfherder_writes
Summary: A stunning encounter first thing in the morning, but at least you get a reward out of it. As you clean his table and pick up the numerous napkins he’d left stacked by his plate, there’s a sizeable tip - all cash, more than you ever get on a good day - and a napkin wrapped around it, declaring two simple yet powerful words: All yours.





	All Yours

You don’t get a lot of mages coming into this little cafe. You’re not even sure those with a status higher than your own (in this case, _significantly higher_ ) know the place exists. It’s nothing extraordinary, at least according to you it isn’t, and the coffee is decent more often than not. Certainly not extravagant enough for those living the high life.

But the middle-aged man you serve is exactly the last type of person you expect to walk through the doors, and were it not for the look of excitement on his face when he spots an empty table, you’d assume him lost or confused.

You only know he’s a mage when you actually talk to him. He’s clueless as to what each term on the chalkboard means, watches the coffee machine like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world, and most important of all he calls satchels of sugar “remarkable”. It’s all the things you used to be - that your parents used to be, before losing face and status all in one blow - and it’s almost jarring wondering just what in the world brought this man here. You still serve him with a smile, still listen politely as he tells you how much his students adore this cafe, still tell him you hope the place lives up to the hype. And for the next half an hour you don’t hear a peep from him; he reads his newspaper, sips his coffee, munches on his cake, and then he’s gone.

A stunning encounter first thing in the morning, but at least you get a reward out of it. As you clean his table and pick up the numerous napkins he’d left stacked by his plate, there’s a sizeable tip - all cash, more than you ever get on a good day - and a napkin wrapped around it, declaring two simple yet powerful words: _All yours_.

You wish mages would come here more often. You’d be able to splurge on so much more stuff. Maybe even put away some money for a vacation. The Bahamas is apparently a popular place to chill out for a week.

The rest of your day isn’t as shocking - a few regulars come in and mooch off the wifi, some newcomers passing through town decide to go for the least busy cafe they can find. It’s calm. It’s normal. You can almost forget that someone from a whole other world, a world you used to call home, had popped in for a simple coffee. For a while you _do_ forget - it isn’t until you sit down at the end of the day and count your tips that the man’s kind face flashes through your mind again, and suddenly you have to ask yourself if he truly had students frequenting the place. You like to think you’d notice by now if they were.

There are no urgent tasks for the night, no people to meet or plans made around your shift, so like usual you volunteer to lock up. Your manager always seems to appreciate the gesture, being a single father on a time limit for how long he can leave his kids at school, and after the first few weeks you’ve slowly become the only one people can trust to close shop properly. A few others either forgot something or accidentally locked the cleaner out, and one former employee even stole some money. It’s honestly a miracle that everyone thought you’d be more reliable right off the bat after all those mishaps.

It gives you time to wind down from the day at least. Gives you a breather before you get on the bus and join the evening crowd on your way home.

The front lights are off and you’re back in casual clothes as you wait for the cleaner. It’s 6:15, the usual time you begin your wait, and true to routine you browse through your apps for anything new. There’s an email telling you a package you ordered has been shipped, a few notifications that a blog you follow posted pictures during your shift. You don’t even bother to check your bank account to see if you have enough to get take out for dinner - the tip from the mage is more than enough to cover a pizza or something. You deserve a treat.

It’s 6:30 when you look up from your phone again. You’re not sure what prompts you to - a hunch? But you set the phone down on the counter and you take in your surroundings, and suddenly it dawns on you how alone you are. An unshakable rush grips you, fills your gut with a sour sensation. Something feels off, you think as you slowly emerge from behind the counter. Like something’s missing? No, like something’s been added to the scene.

You can’t put your finger on it. But your instincts recall the mage once more, this time with renewed caution.

There’s something - no, _someone_ here that shouldn’t be.

The air to your left ripples and shifts. You’re not sure what to thank - crazed will to live or a crest that’s more convenient than a signifier of status at this point - but it pushes your reflexes into overdrive. One arm raises, fingers pointed at the distortion, and you utter the curse, “ _Gandr_.”

The crimson blast, large and round and full of more power than you’d intended, doesn’t hit the target. The air shifts again, moving impossibly fast to your right, and instead your attack shatters the nearest table and chairs. You barely have time to feel disappointed, let alone strike the other side. One moment you’re upright, eyes to the front of the dark cafe, and the next you’re staring up at the ceiling, bent over the counter backwards as a hand tightly grips your throat.

He looms over you like an omen, red eyes cast aglow with murder. You don’t recognise the clothing he wears - the turban or the open half-cloak, and you can’t place just what in the world the fabric you feel against your skin is. You reach up to pry his hand off your throat, to try and escape before _something_ happens, but his other hand snatches your wrist with just as strong a grip. You can already feel your fingers go numb.

“How detestable,” he growls. You’re taken aback by the venom in his voice - but most of all by how exhausted it sounds. The grip on your throat loosens as he inches impossibly closer, pressing himself up against you. There’s a reluctance in his movements, almost as though part of him refuses to so much as touch you.

You’re nothing if not an opportunist. You still have one free hand, and if he’s as exhausted as he sounds then surely you can resort to fisticuffs. You curl your free hand into a fist, keeping up the struggle with your other in the hopes it leaves his focus on holding you in place, and with a final bout of desperation you swing the best punch you can offer.

Air rushes down your throat, but in exchange your free hand is slammed mercilessly onto the counter. The murder in his eyes intensifies. You cough and splutter, and all the while he seethes. Any minute now, you think, some magical bastard is going to kill you and leave your body for the cleaner to find. Who knows, maybe you’ll be mugged too.

There’s a glow either side of you, a warm sensation wrapping around your hands and wrists and stopping midway along your forearms. You watch as he pulls his hands back, no longer gripping your own. Confusion washes over you; it only intensifies when, upon a tentative pull of your arms, you find yourself rooted to the spot. A quick glance shows runes circling your arms, bathing a golden glow against your skin to match his hair.

“Mongrel who dares call himself a Master,” the man hisses. He repositions himself, no longer pressed against you and instead taking his time airing his frustrations. “To have me stoop to such a level - he won’t live to regret it.”

He sucks in a deep breath - composing himself? - and then he’s looming over you again, hands planted firmly on the counter at either side of your head. The position would feel intimate, if not for the situation you’re in. You tug at the runes again, but still you don’t budge. Whatever he intends to do - whatever he’s been told to do - you’re stuck until he’s done. And you really, truly dread finding out what that is.

But then what he’d said hits you, something clicking in your mind. Master? As in, the title given to mages in the Holy Grail War? You didn’t think those still went on around here, especially when the last documented one in this town was over a century ago. But that’s what he’d said, and it certainly would explain the speed and the clothing, as well as the distortions in the air where he’d been.

One of his hands lightly touches the side of your face. He brushes some hair aside, and in the hopes of stalling you blurt out, “Do you mean the mage from this morning?”

That one question makes his angry expression turn into one of interest. His brows rise, a sly smile replacing his scowl, and for a moment he seems to regard you differently. Almost like you’re worth his time now, like something to investigate. Your heart sinks as his thumb swipes against your cheekbone.

“So the fool didn’t pick a brainless mongrel off the street,” he drawls. “A small boon compared to his slight against me. You should feel honoured, little mage - you’ve been chosen to personally service the King of Heroes himself.”

He leans down, closing the remaining distance between you, and for a moment you don’t register what he does. All you can taste is something sweet, something unfamiliar, and then a feeling of being _emptied_ washes over you. It’s like you’re casting spells over and over without rest, except the mana isn’t pouring from where it should be - you feel it being dragged up your throat, gathered between your teeth. It isn’t until you feel his tongue push past your lips to lap at the sensation that the dots connect. He’s _siphoning_ you. The Master he mentioned is using you to replenish mana rather than doing it himself.

You recall the mage. You recall the tip. You recall the napkin. _All yours_.

The note hadn’t been for you. It’d been for his Servant.

A burst of rage overcomes you. You don’t consider the consequences as you slam your teeth together _hard_ , digging into the man’s tongue mercilessly and earning stunned, wide eyes staring down at you. He pulls back as you taste blood, but you don’t see a scowl. You see excitement. You see _amusement_.

“You resist your king?” he says, and you can’t help notice the affection in his tone. Like he’s glad you’re not taking this lying down. He wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand, the barest amounts of blood swept away by the contact.

You spit up at him. Some of the blood left in your mouth lands on his clothing. You take a certain pride in forcing him to compose himself again.

He’s silent for a moment. And then, with an almost sage-like calmness, he says, “So be it.”

With movements so tender, so feather-light and unfamiliar, the King of Heroes skims his fingertips across your face. He tucks stray hairs behind your ears, lingering around your eyes every so often, before finally he removes your sight entirely. His hand is warm as it covers your eyes, the darkness uncomfortable at first. You try to turn away, his grip so light that you know you should’ve been able to, but somehow that warmth traps you beneath him like a weight. So heavy, so powerful. You want so desperately to struggle, to break free despite it all, yet the more you try the more that weight pins you down.

The sweetness is back, but instead of diving right in for a feast the King of Heroes merely skims his lips over your own. Fleeting, at first. A reassurance, testing the waters in any other, far better scenario. He’s warm - _so warm_ \- and the heat is steadily spreading through your clothes, seeping into your skin. Whatever chill the night air would threaten, whatever room temperature the room remains in, you feel as though you could overcome them. It’s like you’re being cradled by the sun itself - and when the palm of his hand pulls away ever so slowly from your face, you almost think that’s exactly where you are.

His face is close. You can feel his calm breaths landing on your lips. For all of a minute he just stares, and his eyes bore so deep into you that you forget just why you’d been struggling earlier.

(A small voice in the back of your mind screams. It thrashes about and screeches about the fact that this Servant, this pseudo-familiar of the mage from this morning, is here to suck you dry.)

(A much, much larger part of you hyper focuses on the metaphor. It’s not only the King of Heroes’ heat suffocating you now, but your own.)

Your breath hitches involuntarily. Red eyes narrow just a bit, satisfaction bubbling to the surface. When he shifts, resuming his previous position, your legs turn to jelly with each nudge his own give to part them.

(What if he kills you?)

(Getting railed to death wouldn’t be so bad.)

The glow around your wrists fades, but you don’t dare move them. What could you even do? Where would you even start? The King of Heroes is so clearly leading this dance, and you can’t bring yourself to act until he signals you to.

The King of Heroes lets out a long, slow breath. He closes his eyes for a moment. He exhales even slower. This isn’t like before, when he’d had to compose himself because of your actions - this is something closer to steeling himself. No, urging himself on?

(He’s weaker, the smaller part of you cheers.)

(He’s weaker, the greater part of you panics.)

He’d come here to replenish mana, you remind yourself, and you don’t even give it a second thought when your body pushes itself up. Your arms snake around him - one around his shoulders, another gripping the hair under his turban - and you all but cling to him as you drink in his warmth. Your lips meet his own, hardly as feather-light as your teeth bump into his. More of that warmth floods through you; everything inside you is surging to life, your blood on fire and your heart hammering away faster than you can count. The King of Heroes is stunned, frozen for a moment, and then the warmth engulfs you. His arms circle your waist, pull you closer.

He’s back in control.

The way his lips move on yours, the way he grips you so tightly - it’s intoxicating. The sweetness is ever-present, a taste you can’t figure out and can’t get enough of. You want more - you chase it every time his tongue moves, throat burning for the sensation. More, more, more. What _is_ that taste? Is it the King of Heroes? Is it his power? _More._ You need _more_.

One hand drags along your waist. He tugs at your shirt, and when warm fingers brush against your bare skin you let slip a muffled squeak. Your mind is racing, thoughts rapidly transforming into a cyclone of primal emotions. _Lower, lower_ , you find yourself begging; but that hand travels higher, traces along your navel at a torturously slow pace.

Fingertips turn to a full palm. He drags his hand along your skin and maps the outline of your hips. Higher and higher, hiking your shirt up and up. Does he want it off? You try to move, to accommodate his wishes, but he practically grinds his hips down against your own. The moan doesn’t quite slip out - not until the nail of his thumb brushes against your chest, dangerously close to one of your nipples. You’re not normally this sensitive - you don’t think you are, at least? - and it catches you by surprise when you break the dizzying kiss to cry out in joy at the King of Heroes toying with your nimple in tandem with another grind of his hips against yours.

(Some part of you, an impossibly-surviving rationality, panics. What did he do to you earlier? Is this some kind of-- You don’t know, _sex magic_? You don’t know shit about Servants other than that they’re pseudo-familiars and after a cup that would make a crusader weep tears of joy. Can all of them do this? Oh God, what if another mage in the Grail War finds you? What if another Servant gets sicced on you like this? Are you even going to survive the King of Heroes? What the _fuck_ did this bastard do to you?)

(Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Shut _up_.)

You don’t even notice your grip is wavering on the man. One moment you can feel the strain of your muscles as you cling to him, and the next you’re prone in his arms as he lifts you higher - up onto the counter’s edge, his head dipping to the crook of your neck while he pushes your knees further, further apart. Nothing separates you save for the clothes you both wear, and it becomes very apparent even those won’t remain for long. He inhales deeply against the skin of your throat. His palm continues to glide along your chest, now on a mission as it inches your shirt up in earnest. His tongue drags itself up the crook of your neck, taking a delicate taste of your skin as though he were a connoisseur. It feels so nice, so warm, the way his breath lands on you.

And then it’s gone as quickly as he’d graced you with it. He pulls back - you fight a whimper as cold air hits you all of a sudden - and moves his gaze slowly down your form. The King of Heroes only deigns to meet your gaze once - and you feel the air leave your lungs when he does.

He drops your shirt like it’s the most disgusting thing in the world. The pleasant atmosphere he’d made for you - (more like himself, the rational part of you grumbles) - crumbles away and is replaced by the same disdain he’d greeted you with.

The King of Heroes slowly closes his eyes and takes a deep, calming breath. He’s obviously trying to keep his cool right now. “Shirt. Off,” he commands. When his eyes open again, the predatory edge to them is back. “Before I tear it off myself.”

(Like _hell_ \--)

(Oh, _hot_.)

You don’t move immediately. You’re stuck in two (three) mindsets, wanting so bad for him to dominate again and just manhandle you, while at the same time reluctant to deny his orders in case he abandons you. (You shouldn’t be doing either. You should be running. You should be _running_.) The internal conflict even gives the King of Heroes pause, a tilt of his head leaving him looking down his nose at you. You’re slowly becoming unworthy of his time - pick one, you scream at yourself, _you have to pick which route you’ll take_.

He takes a step back. Your stomach lurches - you’ve taken too long, you’ve taken _too much time_ \- and all you can do is watch, mouth agape, as he turns his focus elsewhere. The air around you distorts, slowly begins to glow. It’s the same gold from earlier that had held you in place, but now there’s more. So much more. You count a dozen before you remember to breathe again, small ripples of gold that illuminate the King of Heroes like spotlights. He regards them with a scrutinous eye, holds a hand out beneath one. You can only watch as something long and wooden, its head curled in an odd fashion and sporting carvings, pokes out and slowly descends into his palm.

(Holy shit, you’re going to die.)

(It’s fine. You just need to get his favour.)

The King of Heroes lets out a short hum - unimpressed, but not angered. “It should suffice,” he says, mostly to himself. The stave returns to the gold portal, and just as quickly it’s replaced with something bigger. Something deadlier.

(That’s a fucking _axe._ )

(You can’t think of anything sexy about axes. You’re nowhere _near_ the territory for a lumberjack fantasy.)

And then he turns to you.

It’s a knee-jerk reaction. You’re still stuck under his spell (literally) but your body acts on its own, a final show of self preservation on display despite the big, shiny blade he’s hefting in his hand. You’re not even sure how you managed it, being practically inebriated. One leg curls up, foot wedged between the two of you, and then you’re somehow reinforcing the limb and kicking violently at his toned stomach. He doesn’t move by much, stumbling back just a step - but you send yourself flying over the edge of the counter and far from his reach.

You’re sprawled on the floor and gasping for air. The room is spinning, your lungs are on fire. Your head had unceremoniously come in contact with one of the cafe’s cabinets, a throbbing left behind that makes you flinch whenever you try to move. Everything hurts, like you’ve been forced into a marathon with no rest, and you can barely lift yourself to your knees in an attempt at defending yourself.

(Go back. Go back. Go _back_ \--)

You grab at your hair with one hand, hoping to cradle your head and soothe its ache. It has the opposite effect.

“Shit,” you gasp. The pools of gold vanish, and then ever so slowly his footfalls move in your direction.

Shit is right.

The knob of his large, ornate axe blocks the only exit from behind the counter. You can barely see with the room spinning so fast, but still you fire off another gandr in his general direction. It misses - obviously, you berate yourself, what the hell did you expect would happen? - but you’re more surprised that you aren’t immediately met with retaliation.

No, it’s laughter that reaches your ears and makes your head ache more and more. You try to look at the King of Heroes, try to figure out what the fresh hell he’s doing, but he’s moving too fast for you to catch sight of him proper. All you can see is a flurry of red and gold and white approaching you, descending upon you, forcing you into a corner.

Trapped again. Definitely much more vulnerable than last time.

“How amusing,” he drawls, voice so close that you almost feel like he’s in your head, “that you think you still stand a chance. To raise your hand when you know full well who you’re at the mercy of.”

“Get y’er mana elsh’ware,” you slur. God, you hope you’re not concussed. You won’t be able to think of an excuse for it.

The King of Heroes reaches out. You try to flinch back, but all you succeed in doing is making your head hurt even more when it bumps the cabinet behind you. Warm fingers take hold of your chin and hold your head in place. Once again his breath tickles your skin, and his voice is right in your ear.

“For tonight, perhaps,” he all but purrs. One finger taps against your jaw teasingly. “But worry not, mongrel. I won’t be forgetting you any time soon.”

He backs away in an instant. He handles his axe with care, and he leaves you with an almost playful promise lingering in the air.

“Once I’m done disposing of the mage who dare calls himself a Master, of course.”

He vanishes in a burst of gold. You stare, dumbfounded, up at the space he once occupied. It takes more time than you want to admit for his words to sink in.

Shit is right, you think once more.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find this cross-posted at nerfherder-writes.tumblr.com where I may take requests depending on how much free time I have. Any continuations to this particular oneshot will be posted as an additional chapter!


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